


Spare the Rod

by sailaway



Category: Dredd (2012)
Genre: Corporal Punishment, Discipline, Dominance, F/M, Humiliation, One Shot, Power Dynamics, Power Imbalance, Punishment, Reader-Insert, Spanking, Submission, Teacher-Student Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-22
Updated: 2013-01-22
Packaged: 2017-11-29 14:14:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/687908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sailaway/pseuds/sailaway
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Judge Dredd takes matters into his own hands when it comes to disciplining a cadet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Spare the Rod

**Author's Note:**

> Just a bit of OOC fun, doesn't remotely resemble canon. What can I say, I like Karl Urban.

You screwed up.

One month before graduation and you screwed up. Big time.

You're incredibly, ridiculously lucky it was only a simulation or else you'd have gotten everybody killed.

You're also incredibly, ridiculously unlucky that this sim was crucial and you failed with flying colors.

You remove the training helmet and run your hand through your newly cropped hair. You'd cut it close to your head, wanting to keep it low-maintenance, easier than a long braid; the helmet just makes it stick up at odd angles. Of course, you might not even wear it much longer. You set it on the table, facing away from you.

Without even looking at him, you can feel his eyes drilling into you.

"That was disappointing, cadet." Judge Dredd's voice is utterly level.

Your jaw quivers for a moment as you fumble for something to say that doesn't sound like an excuse. The interrogation room is small to begin with but it feels like it's closing in on you.

"I made a mistake." You make yourself raise your head. "A... series of mistakes." There's not much else to be said. He was the senior judge overseeing the simulation, he saw every moment of the whole disastrous thing.

He sits down the only chair, not a flicker of emotion crossing his visible features. It's unnerving; inscrutable. For the briefest of moments you can imagine what the denizens of this city feel like when faced with the infamous Dredd.

"I take full responsibility for my failure and accept any consequence you deem necessary," you say, grateful that your voice is steady, but deep down you're afraid of losing everything you've worked so hard to accomplish. You spent so long fearing you weren't good enough, couldn't hack it, and now you're proving yourself right.

He waves you over and you walk to the other side of the table, bracing yourself for his chastisement. He was a man of few words but after today's mess, you deserve the dressing down.

He doesn't say anything at first and you wait, and wait, staring at the hard line of his mouth and finally you can't stand the tension anymore and open your mouth to blurt something out; before you can say a word he reaches out, whiplash quick, and closes his hand around your wrist.

You let out a startled cry as he turns you over his lap, yelping in shock and outrage as he restrains your squirming body easily with his forearms.

"Judge!" you yell, trying to insert authority into your voice. "This is unacceptable – " You break off as you struggle to free yourself, twisting against his grasp. You've always been proud of the time you've devoted to maximizing your strength and fitness, but Dredd has an undeniable physical advantage and resisting is getting you nowhere. You reluctantly stop fighting, swallowing hard and trying to catch your breath.

Your cheeks are burning hot, blood rushing to your face both from embarrassment and the way your head hangs upside down, pressing against his thigh. You hear creaking leather as he removes his gloves, then his body armor and jacket, keeping one arm pressed firmly in the small of your back. A dozen scenarios race through your mind, but before you can settle on one he reaches beneath your hips to flick open your fly and tug your trousers down, exposing your entire rear end.

"What are you doing!?" You thrash around for a moment, limbs flailing and hands scrabbling uselessly, but he doesn't honor you with a reply, merely holding you in place until you give up, panting and gritting your teeth in anger. This is disorienting, surreal; completely at a loss, all your horrified brain can come up with is _ohmygodwhatthefuckwhatthefuck!?_

An uncontrollable shiver runs down your spine as you feel the warmth of his bare hands on your skin. You crane your neck and can see glimpses of a black tank top and powerful arms, and you force back a whimper of humiliation and fear, shutting your eyes tight and letting your head sag again. He spreads his knees further, supporting your chest, your body splayed out before him.

This was never in any of your textbooks.

You gasp at the sudden crack of his palm – the hot sting of it shocking your system, adrenaline firing through you like electricity. You barely manage to suck in another breath before the second smack and you bite your lip, trying to push down the pain and indignity and utter confusion. You stare at his boot as he delivers your punishment, over and over, clenching your hands into fists as your backside burns under his methodical reprimand. You're getting a little dizzy, brain filling up with blood, but each blow anchors you in reality.

When the spanking stops, you almost don't believe it, steeling yourself for more. But he pulls up your trousers – you flinch as it chafes your tender skin – and rises, depositing you on your knees. With shaking hands you do up your zipper and belt, sneaking glances at him from the corner of your eye. His back is to you as he slips deftly into his jacket and armor, flexing his hands as he tugs on his gloves.

You gaze fixedly at the floor as he turns back to you, face flushing again with shame. You can't speak, and wouldn't know what to say even if you could; your brain is too busy processing, chest rising and falling rapidly, muscles trembling.

He touches you lightly on the head with his gloved fingertips, and you don't know whether that's a good sign or a bad one. After a beat he picks up your helmet, turning it over in his hands, and lets it fall between your knees with a heavy clunk.

He turns on his heel and leaves without another word.

You stare at the helmet. Your breathing slowly regulates.

Somehow, you don't think this discipline is going on the official records.


End file.
